The Fate of Every Squishy
by DuckofIndeed
Summary: If Lawrence thought Dr. Nefarious was…difficult when he was healthy, he didn't know what word could be used to describe him when he was sick. It's not until the doctor's complaining turns to darker things that Lawrence remembers….


Whilst in the middle of writing an "R&C" novel, I got this random idea in my head that takes place while Nefarious is still a squishy (the poor guy made a pretty ugly organic, didn't he?) and involves a talk he and Lawrence have where Nefarious is whining that Lawrence is lucky to be a robot. I then also got it in my head to explore Lawrence's backstory a little bit, something I have yet to really see. This story is a rather bizarre mix of serious and humorous, but sometimes you just have to take chances, no?

Anyway, the characters are property of Insomniac, except for the unnamed old man….

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><p><strong>The Fate of Every Squishy<strong>

Based on the way Dr. Nefarious was complaining, one would think he was on the brink of death, and had Lawrence not known any better, he would have believed it. Or not. His new employer wasn't very convincing in the art of faking terminal infirmity.

In actuality, he simply had a case of the flu that he would surely recover from in a week or two. And though Lawrence had only been working for the scientist a mere three months, he was in dire need of a vacation.

Of course, it was only until _after_ he had been hired that he was informed that he didn't get any vacation days, along with being told quite bluntly the fate that had befallen the organic's former servants, a healthy two dozen of them, all of which he had apparently "annihilated" (save for two, who had run off screaming or simply vanished without a trace in the middle of the night, respectively). Now, had anyone asked the short and squat butler just why _he_ had yet to attempt some form of escape, well, frankly, he hadn't thought up a believable answer to such a question yet.

For the last week (was it just him, or did time have a funny way of slowing down lately?), the scrawny Kerwanoid had found more things to complain to his butler about than he had deceased servants. His room was too hot, or too cold, or his throat itched, or he wasn't pleased with the accusatory look he was convinced the news anchor on the holo-screen was giving him. And every attempt to plead with him to get some rest went unheeded, while Lawrence thought he might just see if he could find any tranquilizers in the doctor's lab, though, based on the fuss he made over being forced to take his medicine (which he only gave in to after being securely pinned down), the butler seriously doubted he would take kindly to being approached with a needle. Lawrence had been kicked enough lately as it was.

_The robot could hear before he could see, and he heard a voice, a muttering to oneself, for that's all it could be, as there was no reply. And when he could see, he saw the face of a sickly, old man with severe features gazing down at him, and he saw the half-grin that pulled his thin lips up on one side._

"_Yes, you'll do just fine."_

Lawrence winced when he heard the scientist's grating voice calling his name for the third time in the last two hours (he would never get the laundry done at this rate), and it was with great reluctance that he opened the door to Dr. Nefarious' bedroom to find him looking just as inexplicably enraged as usual.

"Yes, sir, what is it _now_?"

"Lawrence, it's too hot in here!" the doctor said from where he sat in bed, propped up with a multitude of pillows that needed a surprising amount of fluffing. "Get rid of these blankets!" He kicked his feet beneath the sheets in question. "I'm being smothered!"

"A mere half hour ago, you told me you were too cold. And you do realize you are perfectly capable of removing the blankets yourself," Lawrence said, which only received narrowed eyes in response.

"Why should _I_ have to do it? What do I pay you for anyway?"

Yes, what _did_ he pay him? The butler sighed. "Of course, sir."

"_I've decided on a name for you," the man had said a week after the robot's creation in that quiet, lonely house that was far too big for one, or two, in the robot's case, especially now that the servants had been sent away._

"_A proper name. My nephew's. He's the only one who still visits from time to time, you see." He coughed into a silk handkerchief. "Says he still sees life in a tired, old man. 'Optimism', he calls it." He choked out a single chuckle. "The naiveté of youth, I call it."_

Dr. Nefarious crossed his arms in a most sullen manner and slouched further into the bed sheets as Lawrence went about removing blankets he knew he would be putting right back where they were before the hour was up. If only he could get it in his abnormally large head that there was no need to confine oneself to bed over an illness so trivial, it would save the butler a good deal of work.

When the blankets were neatly folded in his arms, Lawrence asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" despite already having a specific answer in mind. But, when he looked over, he found the scientist's earlier sour disposition to have been replaced by a look of deep consideration.

"Is something the matter, sir?"

"You're lucky, Lawrence," Dr. Nefarious said, and he dropped his head back on the pillows behind him, eyes closed. "You don't ever get sick. To think, the galaxy's greatest genius could be laid low by something as simple as a virus."

The portly butler blinked at him. Well, this was a new way of going about garnering sympathy. "I am quite certain you'll survive, sir." He turned to set the blankets down on the night table nearby, but was halted when the scientist struck the bed with one fist.

"That's not the point, Lawrence! Us organics are weak and frail and…" he squinted one eye in thought, "squishy. We get sick and injured and…" He folded his arms loosely over his stomach, his voice lowering to a tone Lawrence had never before heard from the normally raucous Kerwanoid. "I'm going to grow old and die one day, Lawrence. And it makes me wonder, what point is there in…bending the galaxy to my rule if it's just going to end someday?"

"_Don't you think you should tell them, sir?"_

"_So they can pick me dry before I even hit the floor? Let them wait until I'm cold and gone before they start their squabbling."_

Lawrence set the blankets down on the night table and turned to face his employer again. "Sir, you are only in your 20's. I assure you this is not something you will need to worry yourself over for quite some time."

"That's easy for _you_ to say, Lawrence. Once I'm gone, _you'll_ probably still be around." He squirmed about until he was on his side. "If _you_ grow old, someone can repair _you_. If they actually chose to waste their time on such nonsense, of course. But, what about _me_? Who can possibly help _me_ when I'm old and decrepit? Well? All my genius will be gone, just like that."

The scientist crossed his arms more tightly about himself than ever and let out a single, heavy exhalation of breath, while Lawrence could do little else but stare down at him and ponder why such morbid thoughts had arisen from something as common as the flu.

Dr. Nefarious continued in nearly a whisper, "You never had to have parents that let you down or been bullied in school. You've never been forced to wear _ridiculous_ headgear." He sighed. "I wish I had never been born a…a pathetic…squishy."

Lawrence continued to watch the doctor, whose eyes were now focused on something distant, while the hum of the holo-screen continued to play in the background, and he grabbed the remote and turned it off and pulled the blankets of the bed up to better cover the scientist, who made no sign he took any notice of the act.

"Get some rest, sir," he said in a voice softer than his usual one.

_The robot found his master and creator in the tattered, old armchair he so scarcely left anymore, the one thing he denied his servant the chance to patch up, when on his daily rounds about the silent, old house. He had grown accustomed to the silence, but not of this nature, and he was half-tempted to finish his dusting, but instead chose to sit on the sofa until the cause of the new silence settled in._

Lawrence flicked off the lights as he left the room, and for the first prolonged period in all his short, and yet strangely long, time here, he found himself with a silence he hadn't known in years, which was all the reminder he needed. And had anyone asked his reason for settling back into his chores, he may have been more easily able to answer.

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><p>I hope my story made sense, but I am rather proud of it, and I think it was kind of…deep. Oh, and I just made up a species for Nefarious. He and Qwark appear to be the same species (but I don't think they are quite human, regardless of how similar they are to humans), and I think they both grew up on Kerwan, so I just made a species up from that.<p>

Why _does_ Lawrence stay with Nefarious, though?...

Anyway, please review, squishies.


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